Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 89598 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89598 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
“I don’t know who I am if I’m not a SEAL.” Donaldson’s voice broke. “This was all I ever wanted. I was never like the guys all full of plans for retirement or after the teams. And no offense to the other dude, but no way am I teaching.” He shuddered.
“So you’ll find something else. You’re still a SEAL. We don’t give up.”
Donaldson was quiet a long time. “Maybe some of us do,” he said in a voice that chilled Bacon to the bone.
“How fucking selfish are you?” Bacon knew that anger probably wasn’t the best reaction, but he couldn’t help it. “Monica and those kids are counting on you. To be a husband. To be a dad. Rest of us are counting on you too. To not give up. To take the help you need—the help we need to give you.”
Donaldson stayed silent, but he blinked rapidly.
“I had a friend who gave up. Years ago, man, but it still guts me every damn time I think about them. And that’s daily. You never get over it. So you don’t get to talk like this. Ever. Because Monica and those kids deserve better from you. You need help, like from the doctors, meds maybe to get back on track, you take them, you hear?”
“They want me to take an antidepressant.”
“Good.” Bacon was stopping at the nursing station on his way out too, telling them what Donaldson had said, not taking any chances. “You take it. Because that’s a SEAL. You take the hand outstretched for you. You don’t give up. You fight.” Two tears rolled down Donaldson’s face, and Bacon grabbed his hand before Donaldson could speak. “And we’re here for you. All of us. Brothers.”
“I don’t deserve it.”
“I’m going to keep telling you that you do until you believe it,” Bacon countered. He thought of the guy Spencer had known. The one who had committed suicide. Had he had enough support? Had he had enough people telling him he mattered? Would it have made a difference even if he had that? Maybe not, and that was the sucky thing.
He got why the loss had affected Spencer so much. Even now, he still replayed Jamie’s final months, knowing there was nothing he could have done differently, and still he struggled not to blame himself, probably always would. He’d bet money Spencer probably still had that final text, had it memorized, tattooed on his heart. Bacon got it. He still had Jamie’s last sketchbook. Some things you just never got over.
And he was going to do everything he could for Donaldson, talk to Monica and the nurses, make sure they took his depression seriously. But it still might not be enough. And that really sucked. Donaldson was as good an operator as there was out in the field. He deserved all the support. All the resources. His story matters. It needs telling. He could hear Spencer’s voice in his head, hear his anguish. He’d see the story in Donaldson, see the guy who needed saving and protecting. Spencer’s work mattered too. Bacon just wished...
What?
That Spencer wasn’t a reporter? That he wasn’t so damn good at his job? That he wasn’t dedicated to seeing things through, silent promises fulfilled? Wasn’t that like Spencer wishing he wasn’t a SEAL? He couldn’t take away who Spencer was any more than Spencer could do the same for him. Fuck. Fresh grief washed over him. He wanted to rage at the universe, wanted things to be different. But they weren’t. Couldn’t be.
* * *
Spencer slammed his laptop shut for the third time that morning. He had writer’s block. He’d been stumped before, but this was the first time in his life that words were actually painful. He sat at his computer hour after hour and each word felt like a chore, like squeezing water from a rock. Trying changes of scenery, he journeyed to coffeehouses and parks, but nothing helped. He could make marginal progress on his other projects, the articles he had due, but the book was like someone had erected a brick wall around that part of his brain.
At least right now he had an excuse for shutting down early. His old boss, Oscar, was expecting him for lunch. Time to try to be social, not let on how bruised and battered he was inside. The last thing Oscar needed was to hear about Spencer’s love life and his existential crisis. He found a nice Grand Cru Alsace in his wine cooler that Oscar would appreciate and headed to his condo just south of the Sunset Strip.
The brick apartment building Oscar called home was almost as familiar to Spencer as his own—he’d been visiting Oscar here for twenty years now, parties and late-night story brainstorming and quiet dinners. But never in their friendship had Oscar not been the one to answer the door. Spencer almost dropped the wine when Julio, Oscar’s young home health aide, answered the door.